9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Lorenzo
I am halfway through dinner with my sons when my phone alerts beside my plate.
Rinaldi.
I glance at the screen.
Private investigator at the gate.
My eyes move to the time.
It is after 7:00.
Donna and I do not have an appointment tonight.
Across the table, Alessio is saying something to Edoardo, though I have stopped listening. Donna would not come here unannounced without a reason.
Maybe she found something.
I pick up the phone and answer the alert.
Let her in.
I set the phone down and push back from the table.
“Who is it?” Edoardo asks.
“Donna.”
Alessio looks up. “Now?”
“She is at the gate.”
I leave the dining room and cross toward the front of the house. By the time I open the door, headlights are moving up the drive.
Donna’s car comes to a stop near the front steps.
I stand in the doorway and watch her get out.
Then I notice Mocha in the back seat.
That is even stranger.
She brought the dog. She must have found something urgent.
Donna closes the driver’s door and walks quickly toward me. She has a bag over one shoulder, and her expression is focused enough that I do not bother with a greeting.
“You said your sons were staying with you for the time being, right?”
“Yes.”
“I need to speak to Alessio. Now.”
“I’m right here.”
His voice comes from behind me.
I turn slightly.
Alessio has followed me from the dining room. Edoardo stands a few steps behind him, his attention fixed on Donna.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a photograph, keeping it turned toward her body.
“I need to show you a picture,” she says.
Alessio steps forward, confusion crossing his face. “Okay.”
Donna hands it to him.
“Is that the woman you were with that night?”
His expression changes the instant he looks down.
Horror strips every trace of color from his face.
“What the fuck?” His head snaps up. “Why would you show me this?”
I take the photograph from his hand before Donna can answer.
A dead woman lies beside the bed in a hotel room. The image is close enough to show the bruising around her throat and the red dress covering her body.
Genevieve Sorel.
Rage hits so fast that I barely feel myself turn.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
Donna holds her ground.
“I need to know—”
“Get the hell out of my house.”
“Lorenzo—”
“You’re fired.”
Her face tightens, but she does not move.
“I need him to answer the question.”
“You need to get off my property. Now.”
Behind her, Mocha slams against the window.
The sound is hard enough to make Donna glance back.
The dog is on his feet in the rear seat, barking and striking the glass with his front paws, every part of him focused on her and the threat he now senses around her.
Edoardo moves closer beside me.
His anger is more tame than mine at the moment, but no less dangerous.
Donna looks from him to me.
“I’m not leaving until he answers.”
I step toward her.
“You are leaving now, or I will remove you myself.”
“I had to see his reaction,” she says, standing her ground.
“You have seen it,” Edoardo answers, enraged. “Now leave.”
“Let him answer.”
My control is almost gone.
I step forward and am a second from taking hold of her and removing her from the property myself when Alessio's voice comes from behind me.
“Papà.”
“Alessio, go inside,” I order.
“Wait!” he says, more forcefully.
I stop then.
Something in his voice makes me turn back.
He is staring at the photograph where it has fallen near my feet.
The horror is gone from his face.
In its place is confusion.
Donna looks toward the car.
“Mocha, out,” she commands.
Immediately, the barking stops and the dog stops trying to break through the window.
Alessio steps forward slowly.
He bends, picks up the photograph, and studies it again.
His eyes move over the woman’s face.
Then he looks at me.
After that, he looks at Donna.
“No,” he says.
His voice is quiet and confused.
“It’s not.”
Confusion cuts through my anger.
“Alessio, what are you talking about?”
He keeps staring at the photograph.
“This isn’t her.” He tilts his head, studying the woman’s face from another angle.
Edoardo steps closer. “You had a few drinks that night. Maybe you’re remembering something wrong.”
“No.” Alessio’s answer is forceful. “I was not drunk. I remember that night perfectly. This is not her.”
I look at the photograph again.
“But it is,” he says slowly. He shakes his head. “It looks like her.” His eyes move over the image. “That’s her dress. That’s the room.”
He looks back up at Donna.
“I don’t understand.”
I look back at her too.
“I am sorry I had to show you the picture like that,” she says, “but I needed to see your reaction.”
She steps forward.
“The woman in that picture is Genevieve Sorel.” Donna reaches into her bag and pulls out another picture.
I see it's another still from that night. One of Genevieve and Alessio in the elevator.
“The woman in this picture,” she says, handing it to Alessio as well. “is Rachel Monroe.”
Alessio's eyes look at both pictures, and I see the confusion in them deepen. The puzzle pieces in my head slowly start falling into place.
“Twins,” I say quietly, thinking of Matteo and Tomasso, and the way they look almost exactly alike with a few subtle differences.
Donna nods. “The woman you met at the club, the one you took to that room, was Rachel Monroe. Genevieve Sorel was the one they found dead.”
Alessio looks from one photograph to the other. “How?”
“They were given up for adoption right after they were born,” Donna says. “I'm willing to bet Genevieve didn't even know she had a sister, let alone a twin.”
Edoardo’s anger has faded into concentration. “How did you figure this out?”
I realized then that we're still standing on the stoop outside.
I glance toward the open doorway behind us.
“We are not having this conversation on the front steps. Come inside.”
Donna looks toward her car.
“You can bring Mocha,” I add. “As long as he does not eat anyone.”
“He won’t.” She starts down the steps, then looks back at us. “Unless I tell him to.”
“That’s not funny,” Alessio says.
“I had a feeling I knew how you were all going to react. That’s why I left him in the car.”
She walks back to the vehicle and opens the rear door.
Mocha steps out before she has the door fully open.
He is large enough that his head reaches Donna’s hip. His attention goes first to her, then to the three of us standing near the entrance. The hair along his back has settled, but his body remains alert.
Donna walks back to us, and he walks beside her as if he didn’t try to break the window to tear us apart moments ago.
Edoardo watches the dog approach warily.
“He tried to come through the window.”
“He thought I was in danger,” Donna says.
“You were,” Edoardo says.
She quirks an eyebrow at him. “If you think Mocha is the only protection I have, you're not as smart as I thought you were.”
Edoardo’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing.
I hold the door open wider. “Inside.”
Donna walks past me with Mocha at her side.
As the dog crosses the threshold, he turns his head toward Edoardo and watches him for a second too long.
Donna snaps her fingers once.
Mocha faces forward again and continues into the house.
Alessio looks at her. “What other protection?”
She just smiles and keeps walking. “One way to find out.”
Alessio still has both photographs in his hands. He looks down at them again as we walk back toward the dining room. Now that he knows the dead woman is not the woman he spent the night with, it's a lot easier for him to look at.
It's not as if he's never seen a dead body before, but seeing the body of a woman he felt strong emotions for is different.
The meal remains on the table, half-finished and forgotten. Donna stops just inside the room, and Mocha settles beside her leg after one command.
I gesture toward the table.
“Sit.”
She takes the chair nearest the end. Mocha sits at her side, his eyes alert.
Alessio sits across from her. Edoardo takes the chair beside him. I remain standing for a moment, looking at the two photographs my son has placed on the table.
The women are nearly identical.
Nearly.
Now that I know to look, the differences are there.
The woman in the elevator has a slightly narrower face. Her brows sit differently. Genevieve’s mouth is fuller, though the angle of the crime scene photograph makes the comparison difficult.
It is enough to make me wonder how anyone noticed.
“How did you find Rachel?” I ask.
Donna sets her bag beside her chair.
“I spent hours looking into Genevieve's background. Her personal information, her public profiles, her history, her jobs, her income, every single thing about her. A good part of that time was just staring at pictures of her, looking at the people in the backgrounds, her outfits, the settings.”
She sets her hand on Mocha's head. “I was waiting on a contact to send me pictures of that night, the crime scene, the stills from the lobby. And when they came in…” She shrugs. “It just didn't look right.”
“And your mind landed on twins?” I ask skeptically. “It's pretty far-fetched.”
“Well, if you think about it logically, there aren't many other explanations. Right?” she says.
“The stills from the lobby and elevator are grainy enough that I guess someone who looked similar could fool someone, but not me.
I'd been studying those pictures for hours.
This was too close. It couldn't be anything but twins, unless you buy into doppelgangers.”
“They're wearing the same dress,” Alessio says.
“Yes,” she says. “It's Genevieve's dress. I saw it in another picture on her social media. It makes sense that it was her dress. Whoever did this wouldn't risk otherwise.”
“So this Rachel wore it that night, and they took it off and put it on Genevieve,” Edoardo asks.
Alessio’s jaw clenches.
“You said you left the hotel, and you didn't zip the dress up, right?” Donna asks him.
“Right,” Alessio says quietly.
“But the report I got, it says that her dress was zipped up.” She sits back.
“I'm not saying it's not possible for her to do it herself, but it would have been difficult. And if she intended on it being zipped up, she probably would have asked you before you left, especially if you were still there while she was getting dressed.”
I look quizzically at her.
She shrugs. “It happens from a lifetime of wearing dresses too tight with inconvenient zippers.”
For a moment, I imagine Donna wearing a dress that’s too tight. And an inconvenient zipper…
This is not the time, I scold myself.
“Where was Genevieve while Alessio was with Rachel?” Edoardo asks.
“I don’t know.”
“She might have already been done,” he speculates. “They could have had her on ice.” Literally.”
“Maybe,” I say, “Or they might have killed her in that room. It would save time on setting up the scene if they just did that.”
Donna tilts her head, considering. “Either way, wouldn't have been easy to get her into that room without any cameras catching them. Trust me.”
I lift one eyebrow at her.
She looks at me innocently. “I may have tested the theory myself. But with either a kidnapped woman or a body? That's not a one-person job.”
Alessio looks up. “Why would she ask me to stay if this was the plan?”
“She knew you wouldn't,” I answer. “She obviously did know who you were, and she targeted you. And if that were the case, she would know that you wouldn't risk your duty. It was just for show.”
“In fact,” Donna says slowly, “she may have already known that you couldn't stay, and that's why she targeted you. She needed to make sure she got someone who wouldn't stay the night.”
I turn and look at her. “You're implying someone knows us well enough to know things like that.”
“Yes,” Donna says simply. “I am.”
“So who is this Rachel Monroe?” Edoardo asks.
“I don't know much yet,” Donna says. “All I have is a birth certificate and adoption records.
I had to come over here before I could look too far into it.
A cursory look, though, tells me that she doesn't have any social media or any publicly available information.
So it'll take a deeper dive than it did with Genevieve.”
Alessio is looking at the photographs again, quiet.
“That means,” Donna says, waiting until he looks up at her before continuing, “that the woman you're supposed to have killed, the woman you took back to that hotel room, is alive and walking around.”
“And once we find her,” Edoardo says, “we can get some answers.”
“No,” Donna says. “Once we find her, we turn her into the police along with the birth certificate and adoption records so that they can absolve your brother of murder. If she dies before that point, we lose the one person who can prove that Alessio was never with Genevieve to begin with.”
“Why don't we take this information to the cops now?” Alessio says.
“Because as I said before,” I say, “it's far-fetched. We have no proof that the woman in these photographs is Rachel, and we can't guarantee that the cops are going to care enough to look into it. We need to provide indisputable evidence right to their door.”
Donna nods. “Exactly. Birth records establish that Rachel exists, but they do not establish that she was at the Halston with Alessio. We have to assume that the room has been wiped of all evidence that she was ever there.”
Donna gathers the photographs and slides them back into her bag before standing up.
“Which means I need to start looking for Rachel.”
“Let me know when you find her,” I say, standing up as well.
“I will keep you informed,” she says.
“I said,” I say quietly, “let me know when you find her.”
Her hand stills on the bag.
“I made it very clear that we need to deliver this woman alive.”
“I have no intention of killing her,” I say. “She murdered someone.”
Donna lets out a half-laugh. “Are you concerned for my safety? I think I can handle the likes of Rachel Monroe.”
“And as you said before, she isn't working alone.”
“And as I also said before, I don't go anywhere without protection.”
“Very well,” I say. “Then we will make it a condition of your employment.”
She studies me across the table. “You fired me fifteen minutes ago.”
Alessio snorts.
Edoardo’s mouth quirks up, almost in a smile.
I hold Donna’s gaze. “I've since reconsidered.”
“Are you sure? You were pretty upset.”
She does not look apologetic, but she does look tired now that the urgency that brought her here has passed.
“I am still,” I tell her. “One has nothing to do with the other.”
“Good.” She adjusts the bag on her shoulder. “Then we understand each other.”
“We do,” I say. “Locate Rachel Monroe.”
Donna turns toward the door with Mocha beside her.
“And then call me.”
She pauses for a moment, then continues walking out of the room, carrying the first real chance we have had to clear my son since the police came to take him away.
Rachel Monroe is alive.
Now we have to find her before the people who curated this lie decide she has lived too long.